Two weeks ago, I planted bulbs in that patch of dirt. No, I have not lost my mind. They’re summer bulbs. Anemone. You’re supposed to plant them in February. At least that’s what the package told me to do. I like it when packages tell me what to do. It means I don’t have to ask anyone, and asking people about gardening is just asking for trouble. There is no consensus. In fact, when it comes to gardening, it seems that each person I consult revels in the idea of contradicting every piece of information I already have.

Put coffee grounds on your tomatoes.
Never put coffee grounds on your tomatoes.

Use horse manure, but don’t use fresh horse manure; use old manure.
Unless it’s for manure tea, then you want it as fresh as possible.
You should just get a horse for this.

Don’t get a horse, get chickens.
But don’t let your chickens drop fresh manure in your garden because it’s toxic.

Plant in April.
Never plant in April.

Plant before Mother’s Day.
Never plant before Mother’s Day.

Till the soil.
Never till the soil.

Layer the soil with old manure, or manure tea, or just let your chickens wander around and poop in there.
But don’t plant anything for at least a year, because that’s how long chicken poop stays toxic.

You can begin to see how a package that tells me to “Plant in February, 4 inches deep and 2 to 3 inches apart” could be inviting, comforting even. It might be just as arbitrary as telling me to stand one place, spin slowly, and throw seeds over my shoulder, but at least there’s no manure involved. I have more than enough manure in my life, thank you very much. I am a writer, after all. Shit comes with the territory. And writing advice is no exception.

Use an outline.
Don’t use an outline.

Follow the rules of dramatic structure.
Break the rules of dramatic structure.

Story is king.
Characterization is king.
No, theme is king.

Forget all that.
Market is king.

Market to women, but don’t exclude men, or children, or tweens, or geeks.
In fact, you should just market to everyone, because crossover is where it’s at.
But don’t look like you’re marketing, because that will kill your market for sure.

It’s a wonder I ever put anything down on the page at all. And believe me, there are weeks when I simply can’t. That is until I remember one rather obvious truth:

Nobody knows what they’re talking about.

Not as it might apply to you or me, anyway. Advice isn’t predictive. It’s just a report of what happened to somebody else when they tried something you haven’t tried yet. Barring the basic fire-will-burn-you-if-you-shove-your-hand-in-it kind of advice, the rest is pretty much useless. You might as well just go with your gut.

My gut told me to read the first line of directions on the Anemone package, and then just wing it. I didn’t analyze my yard for the perfect ratio of sun to shade, or measure the soil temperature, or even mark where I planted them. Although I probably should have done that last one; I can see now how that would have been smart. Maybe the bulbs will actually come up in July and be perfect and beautiful. Maybe I will hate them. Maybe I’ll realize I’ve planted them in the wrong place. Or maybe they just won’t come up at all. A distinct possibility, given that the bag has been sitting in my garage since 2010.

Honestly, I don’t know what will happen. The idea that I ever knew anything in my life would happen before it actually did is just a story I tell myself to make me feel smarter. It’s a really good story, by the way – Amy Knows Everything – but it’s still just a story. So when you catch me writing a post this summer entitled The 7 Ways to Guarantee Perfect Anemones in Your Garden because mine accidentally turn out to be stunning, I fully expect you to throw old horse manure at me. But make sure it’s old please, because that other stuff is toxic. Maybe you should just go ahead and get a horse for that now. I’m pretty sure you’ll need it. © 2012 Amy Bilhorn Thomas